“No regrets?” Bruce said.
“Not yet,” she said, and instantly saw something change in his eyes, even in the dim lighting of the tavern. “I’m kidding,” she added.
“I know.”
“How about you? Any regrets?”
“No. I feel ridiculously lucky, like I don’t deserve you. If I feel anything, it’s a form of guilt.”
“You totally deserve me,” she said, then added, “That didn’t come out right. We deserve each other.”
“Okay,” he said. “No more guilt. Let’s start our honeymoon.”
There was a small airport about twenty miles north of Portland.
Abigail was nervous about taking a plane to the island, but Bruce had assured her that it was totally safe.
“I feel like I read about small planes crashing all the time.”
“Mostly because of bad weather, and there’s no bad weather today. And it’s only about a twenty-minute flight.”
They walked into the departure lounge and were greeted by a tall, wide-shouldered man who looked like he was ex-military. He stood behind a desk embossed with the words CASCO AIR, and a logo that showed a plane above a lighthouse. He looked at them both and said, “Heart Pond Island, right?”
“Right.”
“Got a good day for it. Is that all your luggage?”
“There are two more bags in the car,” Abigail said.
“No worries. I’ll send someone to get them. Chip told me that you’re his special guests and I was to pull out all the stops, so just take a seat, and I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”
They were on the plane in about twenty minutes, a six-seater in which you could see straight ahead through the windshield. It was the smallest plane Abigail had been on, and she thought she was going to hate it, but once they were up at cloud level, with views of the Atlantic Ocean, she began to get excited. This is my life now, she thought, one adventure after another. She stretched her back, felt a crackle in her neck and a pop in one of her shoulders. The plane lifted slightly, and she experienced a sudden wave of relaxation so intense that it felt like she’d keep on feeling it even if the plane started tumbling toward the ocean. Her fingers were intertwined with Bruce’s. He leaned across her and pointed through the oval side window. “See the island?”
It was oblong, with rocky shores everywhere except for one sandy cove. In the center was the pond that gave the island its name. It was shaped very much like a heart, a triangle cut in on one side by a wooded spit of land. As the plane began to lower and circle around, Abigail could make out two clusters of buildings, one on either side of the pond.
“Where do we land?” she asked Bruce, and he pointed out a landing strip that seemed too short along the southern edge of the island. A gust of wind came along, and it felt as though the plane almost skidded on the air. Still, Abigail was calm, telling herself that the pilot had it all under control, and pretty soon the plane was bumping down onto the gravel landing strip, then pulling up toward a medium-sized hangar. The pilot lowered the stairs and all three stepped out into the salt air, cooler here than it had been even at the airport. Abigail pulled a sweater from her bag and pulled it on over her head, as the plane’s propellers ticked to a stop.
“This way,” the young pilot said, and Bruce took her arm as they began to walk toward the hangar, just as a stocky man with a reddish beard pulled up in a Land Rover and jumped out of the driver’s side, bustling toward them.
“Hey, Bruce,” he said, and Abigail was surprised to see Bruce and the red-haired man hug. It was the first time she’d seen her husband physically interact with another man.
“You didn’t have to come yourself,” Bruce said, “but thank you.”
“Of course I did. This must be Abigail.”
Bruce introduced her to Chip Ramsay, saying that everything she saw on the island was his. “He’s the man,” he said. Chip wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt despite the cold air on the island. The hair on his arms and legs was as red as the hair on his head. There was what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt.
With the pilot’s help they collected all their luggage and loaded it into Chip’s car. “Quick tour of the island?” he asked. “Or straight to your room?”
“How about straight to our room?” Bruce said.
“That sounds good,” Abigail added.
Chip drove them along a dirt road through a thick pine forest, then up a short incline and through two stone pillars that marked a gate. Above them hung a faded sign that said camp PASSAMAQUODDY. “Welcome to Quoddy,” Chip said. They were suddenly through to a clearing. To their left was an enormous lodge made of dark timber and rough stone. Even with the windows closed she could smell woodsmoke in the air.